Hand in Glove
by girloficeandfire
Summary: SanSan futurefic. This is very much a work in progress. The title for this fic was inspired by the song "Hand in Glove" by The Smiths: "So, hand in glove I stake my claim; I'll fight to the last breath...If they dare touch a hair on your head,I'll fight to the last breath."
1. The Apprentice Assassin

_This story has been in my head for a very, very long time now, but I was struggling so much with other fics that I kept putting it off. However...I've finally reached the point where I can't put it off any longer...the plot bunnies were just eating away at me! heh. So it starts with a severe lack of SanSan, I know, but I *promise* that I'll get there eventually. Hopefully not too long from now :) As always, reviews are love! Seriously, sometimes they're what keeps me plugging away at these fics..._

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It had been some time since she'd been summoned to the House of Black and White, and the girl that still dwelt deep within her rared up in curiosity when the message reached her.

_It is time for your apprenticeship to end. We have been given a task that only you can perform. Return to the temple as soon as you can._

The first part of this note confused her. How could she have finished her time as an apprentice already, when it seemed that she'd only just begun? Something was not right about this...yet she was clearly required to return to the temple, and she dared not ignore the summons. After all, it could be some sort of test...from the very beginning they'd been testing her, constantly, over and over and over again. At first she'd failed most every time, but eventually she'd learned her lessons and been raised from no one, to acolyte, to apprentice.

She was no one, and yet she was everyone. _No...not everyone..._any_one._ She needed to remember this for when she entered the temple...inevitably, she would be questioned about who she was.

They _always_ asked who she was.

At least in more recent times, they'd _seemed_ to believe her answers.

The assassin shivered in the brisk, damp air of this place that was both her home, and no home to her at all. Winter had come to Braavos as it had to everywhere else, but the words upon the wind were that it was not so harsh as the winters of the west. Winters that everyone had expected would last years upon years, after such a long summer as the one they'd had...only dragons were in the world again, and the cold had begun to abate almost as soon as it had arrived. _Dragons,_ the assassin girl mused, shaking her head. She wouldn't have believed it if the news hadn't reached her from a dozen different sources, all men and women whom she trusted.

She wouldn't have believed it if she didn't know now that people could learn to change their faces.

She wouldn't have believed it if she hadn't been running with wolves in her sleep for several years now.

The House of Black and White was quiet as always when she entered, and though she knew where to go her footsteps were joined by another's long before she reached that place.

"You sent for me," she stated.

"I did." The kindly man's voice was sad, and she couldn't help but turn to face him.

"Have I done something wrong?" she asked, hating herself for the weakness that showed in such a question.

"No," he merely replied, though his tone said _not this time_. "I have a task for which only you are fit."

"Tell me," she insisted.

"Not here. Come." The kindly man led her deep below the temple. They passed others along their way, men and women who nodded to them in greeting yet never spoke a word. Finally they reached the room of many faces.

She had worn several of these faces during her apprenticeship, but this time the kindly man once again returned to her the face of Arya Stark.

"Why?" she asked, her fingers flitting over features that were somehow both familiar and foreign.

"You must return to Westeros. We have been given the task of ridding this world of a certain person, and though I've thought on it for days and days, I cannot comprehend how this death could belong to anyone other than you."

The assassin waited for him to say the name, but all the while she was wondering, _Who could it be?_

_Certainly not Dunsen or Raff the Sweetling..._ Neither of them would be important enough for the House of Black and White to get involved...but the rest...

_Ser Ilyn, Ser Meryn, Queen Cersei..._

"It is none of those whose names you still think of, when you believe that I will not notice," the kindly man sighed, shaking his head. "Who are you, child?"

"No one," she spat, but she was thinking _I'm not a child._

"You lie. You are Arya of House Stark, as you ever have been. All of the names and faces that you have taken these past few years, but you have never let go of _that_ one. It is for this reason that I send you on this assignment, and it is for this reason that once you have rid Westeros of this person you will remain there...and no longer be a servant of this temple."

Her insides were twisted up in anger. "I've done all you've ever asked of me," she reminded the kindly man.

"This is true, and it is why I know that you will do this as well. Please, Arya of House Stark, let me explain who it is you go to kill."

Arya nodded, proud of herself for not biting her lip when she did so.

"You have a sister, do you not?" he asked.

"Arya Stark had a sister," she answered carefully.

"Just so. We have had news that Sansa Stark is alive and well in Westeros - in the Vale, to be specific. For some time she was living in disguise, as the natural daughter of a man named Petyr Baelish."

"_Littlefinge_r?" Arya wondered, confused.

"We are told that he is called that name as well, yes. And now that the Lannisters have fallen from power, now that Daenerys Targaryen and her dragons are well on their way to Westeros, Petyr Baelish has brought Sansa Stark out of hiding...and has announced her betrothal to one Harrold Hardyng, heir to the Eyrie."

"The...the Eyrie? Wouldn't my cousin Robert Arryn inherit that seat?"

"He would have, had he not been such a sickly boy. He died of his ailments just one month ago...and that is why the Faceless Men were contracted. Lord Baelish is not well-loved by all, it seems, and when we were told that he had slowly murdered young Robert Arryn, it was not difficult to see that this story was a true one." The kindly man sighed again. "We do not often get involved in affairs such as...this. But - "

"If Littlefinger murdered my cousin, who's to say he wouldn't do the same to my sister?" Arya had forgotten herself in her anger; she was pacing now, her hands clenched into fists, her face flushed. There had not been much love between she and Sansa when they were young, but they were still _sisters._ They were _family._

They were _Starks_.

"I see now more than ever that you are not ready to take on a task such as this, any more than you are ready to be released from your apprenticeship," the kindly man was saying, "but I also know that I do not have a choice...especially now that I have told you these things. I only ask that you remember what you have learned here, Arya of House Stark. Remember it, and keep it close to your heart. You will need it more than you know, in the days and weeks and months to come."

"Perhaps once I have dealt with Littlefinger, you will have other need of me in Westeros," Arya said hopefully.

"I think not." On this he was firm. "And even if I did, I know that once you have found your sister, you will be tied to her again...and that is not the way of the servants of this temple."

For so very long Arya had fought to remain a part of this, and she refused to give it up just yet. "I will notify you of Petyr Baelish's death," she promised, "and then I will await my next assignment."

The kindly man smiled sadly. "You will be waiting a very long time, Arya of House Stark."

_Stop calling me that!_ something inside of her screamed, but when she spoke her words were calm and matter-of-fact. "With all of the turmoil in Westeros, I am certain that you will have need of me again."

The kindly man made no answer, and finally Arya was forced to turn and leave the room, to leave behind all of those faces she might have worn, had she been better at leaving behind the one that truly belonged to her.

The waif met her at the top of the stairs and gave her a heavy bag of coins and some new clothing - men's clothing, but clean and well-made, finer than anything Arya had worn in a very long time. "You've not seen the last of me," Arya told the strange girl-woman. The waif only gave her the same sad smile that the kindly man had, and with a growl of frustration Arya pushed past her.

It was only when Arya had stepped back out into the bright and chilly day - a rarity for Braavos, for it to be so clear, with no fog at all - that she remembered one last thing. She counted the steps, stopped, and glanced from left to right, and behind and in front of herself as well. There was no one to be seen, yet still she could not shake the feeling of being watched.

_It's now or never_, Arya told herself. After all, she couldn't leave Braavos without the one thing that truly made her Arya Stark once again.

She bent and moved the loose stone. Needle was still there, of course, though when Arya drew the little sword from its hiding place it felt like no more than a dagger in her hand. _Have I grown that much?_ she wondered as she tucked Needle into her belt, her hand resting protectively over its hilt.

As she left the House of Black and White behind her, an old prayer of sorts was running through her head. _Dunsen, Raff the Sweetling. Ser Ilyn, Ser Meryn. Queen Cersei._

_Littlefinger._

_Valar morghulis._


	2. The Oath Breaker

"What is this, now? The hundredth time you claimed that you knew where we were going? I've tried to be patient, Brienne, but we're _lost._ We're lost, and freezing, and to be honest I'm quite miserable...and it doesn't seem that you're faring much better."

"It's the snows," Brienne moaned. "They make everything look the same..."

"And you've mentioned _that_ before, as well." Jaime grunted and struggled to his feet, approaching the door of the cave they'd been using as shelter for nearly a fortnight. "If you weren't such a terrible liar, I'd think you were keeping me here on purpose."

"You believed the last lie that I told you readily enough," Brienne reminded him.

"I did, didn't I? More fool I, then. I did _want _to believe that you'd found the girl...unfortunately, my judgment was clouded by that desire."

Brienne turned away, miserable. She still hadn't told Jaime the entire truth of what she was about, and with every day that passed not doing so became more and more difficult.

_And what of Pod and Ser Hyle?_ Would Lady Catelyn - _no, Lady Stoneheart now_ - have kept them alive as promised? It wasn't Brienne's fault that winter and its snows had stopped her from returning with Jaime...and now that they'd heard news of Sansa Stark, _real_ news, Brienne had no choice but to go to her first. Doing so, and convincing Lady Sansa to come with them..._There is a chance that even that may not make a difference._ Brienne knew this, but she also knew that she had to _try_.

"Seven hells, Brienne, try to look a bit more cheerful. Yes, we're stuck in this cave for the nonce...but once the weather clears a bit, we'll be on our way to the Gates of the Moon - and to Sansa Stark. Perhaps if we're lucky we'll arrive before her wedding." Jaime abandoned his self-appointed post at the cave's opening and once more lowered himself down beside the fire.

"How do we know that this girl is in fact Lady Sansa?" Brienne worried out loud. "Wasn't Lord Baelish involved in sending the false Arya to the Boltons?"

"He was, yes," Jaime replied thoughtfully. "But Littlefinger wouldn't have his little fingers so deep in something if it was as much a falsehood as all that. Besides, he even got this pious High Septon of ours involved in annulling Sansa's marriage to my brother, and after what happened to Cersei..."

Her companion went silent, and Brienne knew better than to say anything more - at least for now. When Jaime got to dwelling on Cersei...

_Stop being such a fool, _Brienne chided herself. _He'll never..._

"You're frowning again, my lady," Jaime teased, though his own smile was obviously forced. "Come, let's feast on the last of that dried horse meat and hope that when tomorrow dawns, we'll be able to leave this place."

"Is this really the last of it?" Brienne took a chunk of the tough salted meat from his hand. Their pack horse had been half starved the day its foot found a hole hidden beneath the snow drifts...she'd hated that they had to kill the poor thing, though she knew that they were putting it out of its misery...and they'd been so low on food that they'd known better than to let the meat go to waste.

"It is," Jaime admitted, his tone taking on a far more serious note than usual. "We're lucky it lasted this long, and I'm not of a mind to butcher Honor. Your mount I couldn't care less about...but then I'm not sure both of us could fit on one horse, anyway."

"I'm sure my palfrey will be happy to know that you're sparing its life, no matter the reason," Brienne said sarcastically.

Jaime's mouth hung open for a moment, and then he let out a hoarse chuckle. "A jape from Brienne of Tarth? I'd never believe it if I hadn't heard it for myself. Unfortunately, this is no time for laughter. Snow or no snow, we must leave this place on the morrow, and it's past time we discussed what may happen when we reach the Gates of the Moon."

Brienne poked at the fire, staring into its coals and willing them to tell her something, to give her some sign. Isn't that what Stannis and his red woman did? _And Thoros of Myr, too...you must not forget him..._

"_Your_ presence is what I'm worried about," she mumbled.

"And for good reason. But how can I let you go alone?"

_You could, and I should, but I need you with me when I return to Lady Stoneheart._

"Perhaps I can claim that I've taken you prisoner and am bringing you to Lady Sansa as an offering of mine own good will. We need only get her alone to explain the truth of the matter..."

Jaime grimaced. "As plans go, that's a terrible one. But I suppose, if it's all that we've got..."

"It's all that we've got," Brienne insisted. "Lord Baelish is clearly a cautious man - he would let some time pass before he tortured, maimed, or killed either one of us. If the gods are good we will be gone before things reach that point." _And if they aren't, and we returned to Lady Stoneheart and her men without Sansa Stark, we'd be facing the same fate anyway._

"I suppose there's always the chance that we will freeze to death on our way to the Vale," Jaime sighed.

"And _you_ accuse _me_ of not being cheerful enough," she pointed out.

"What can I say...being around you weighs on the spirit." Jaime's words were not kind, but Brienne knew that he didn't mean them - not truly.

"We should get some sleep," she announced some time later.

"Ah, so the maid yearns to cozen up next to the knight..."

Brienne felt her face flush. "You were the one who suggested this arrangement in the first place!"

Jaime laughed. "So I was...so I was. I must admit, you're not soft and comfortable like most women, but you're warm, and that's what counts."

_It's what's kept us alive._ "I wasn't aware that you knew what most women felt like."

"First a jape and now a taunt! Has our time in this cave birthed a new Brienne of Tarth?"

_No, but my time with you has changed me._ Brienne grunted in displeasure and moved to lay down on their bedrolls. Jaime followed her lead just moments later, and for a while they laid back to back in silence...but she could tell by his shallow breathing that he wasn't sleeping any more than she was.

Suddenly he spoke, his voice so low that she had to strain to hear his words. "For what it's worth, Brienne...I feel honored to have you by my side. I cannot..." He paused for so long that she wondered whether he would ever continue, but finally he said, "I cannot imagine anyone I'd rather spend my last moments with, were that time to come sooner than I've hoped."

Brienne's heart thudded in her chest, so loud that she thought he must be able to hear it. He'd told her once that he and Cersei had come into this world together, and were meant to leave it together...so then what did he mean, saying such things, now of all times?

"Brienne?" He sounded like such a little boy when he said her name that she had to close her eyes against the tears that welled up in them. She drew a deep breath and let it out slowly before finally replying.

"For what it's worth, Jaime...you have honored me many times over. You stopped the Brave Companions from raping me...you came back to Harrenhal and rescued me from that bear...you helped Ser Loras understand that I did not murder Renly...and then you entrusted me with Oathkeeper, and with the task of finding Lady Sansa...which I clearly could not do without your help.

"You even forgave me when I lied to you...for that alone, I am forever in your debt. After everything I've seen, everything I've learned...we need men like you in the world.

"And for that very reason I mean to see that you remain here."

The cave was silent again for several moments, until Brienne began to wonder if Jaime had even heard her. Finally he said, "We go in the morning then...no matter what?"

"We go in the morning," she repeated, "no matter what."


	3. The Secret Keeper

**First things first...I am *so* bad about thanking my reviewers, especially one by one, but I did want to say thank you thank you thank you to the first two users who left reviews on this fic - brahitsemily and winterwasp! This story has been an idea in the back of my head for a VERY long time and it won't be a short one, so I hope you stick with me on this, err, journey ;)**

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As the war raged anew around King's Landing and in Highgarden, news had come less and less frequently to the Quiet Isle. At times Elder Brother thought that he preferred it that way - receiving fewer letters meant that there weren't so many secrets to keep from his brothers.

_You only hide the worst news from them_, he reassured himself constantly - but somehow, this rarely made him feel better about doing so.

And this most recent letter...

It came from the High Septon himself, but even more important than _who_ had sent it was the person it was about.

_Sansa Stark._

Elder Brother never could have foreseen that a young highborn maid from the North would feature so prominently in his life. She was the last true Stark, and one of the last of the Tully line as well. Not to mention tied to the Vale by her late aunt Lysa's marriage...

And yet all that would have still been meaningless, were it not for Sandor Clegane. _He_ was the reason why the High Septon's letter had made Elder Brother pace his quarters for three nights straight, the only reason why news of Sansa Stark meant anything at all here on the Quiet Isle.

It would be better for Sandor to not know that Sansa Stark was alive and well and not so far away...especially now that the girl's Lannister marriage had been annulled. Even _more_ especially now that she was about to wed a young Lord of some standing. _But Sandor Clegane will not remain on the Quiet Isle forever, _Elder Brother knew, and if he was blindsided by this news the moment he stepped foot back in the harsh outside world...

_I need to think on this...out there._ It was the only way. So long as he remained here in this holy place, Elder Brother's decision would be affected by this peaceful world within a world...this place where Sandor Clegane could never truly belong. _And _his_ fate is the one that matters, at least in this._

Early the next morning Elder Brother boarded the ferry for Saltpans. The village had been partially rebuilt before winter had truly arrived, and now that the winds and snows had died down - _a false spring, for certain_, Elder Brother mused - the townfolk had renewed their efforts. Several of them hailed him as he rode his mule down the street and out into the surrounding countryside.

It was no short journey to the place he wanted - no, _needed_ - to visit, and Elder Brother knew that it would be a fortnight before he saw the Quiet Isle again. He'd made his excuses to his brothers, but not to everyone. He'd not wanted to lie, of course, but beyond that, Sandor Clegane had a way of seeing through him. _The man has a gift._

_If only he knew how to use it._

The mule plodded along through melting snow and mud, and Elder Brother wondered - not for the first time - whether this journey would end up being his last. The weather may not hold, and the Riverlands were still plagued by outlaws. Somehow their numbers only seemed to grow; despite the fragile peace created before winter's arrival, it was clear that there were still many Northmen and Riverlanders who would rather harry any soldiers or Freys still wandering about than return home and bend the knee to their enemies. The outlaws would not harm a man of the faith such as himself - Septon Meribald was proof of that - yet still...

_These are uneasy times._ The most worrisome news wasn't even that of Sansa Stark, if Elder Brother really considered things...but of _dragons_. Dragons taking castle after castle in the south, dragons joining forces with krakens and sailing west from Slaver's Bay...dragons, _actual_ dragons, with _riders..._and rumors that this was no false spring, but a spring that would become a perpetual summer, should these dragons turn out to be actual animals...

Such were the thoughts that filled his mind on his long ride; all things that he'd not felt comfortable dwelling on when he'd still been on the Quiet Isle. Someone would have noticed his disquiet, and he'd not wanted his peaceful brothers to be plagued by such notions.

The place where Sandor Clegane had been left to die - _when he was still the Hound, as well,_ Elder Brother reminded himself - was not a place oft visited. Very few people knew where the Hound had been put to rest, but sometimes a place just had a feel about it...this one did for certain, and it was a heavy, evil sensation. Not for the first time, Elder Brother wondered if it would have seemed this way had that foul man Rorge not come along and stolen the Hound's helm from its resting place, then used it to hide his monstrous face as he committed atrocities at Saltpans and elsewhere.

And not for the first time, Elder Brother chastised himself for making the mistake of leaving that helm here in the first place.

Though the spot toward which Elder Brother rode was shunned by most, when he finally reached it one windblown afternoon he saw that this time, he was not alone. Though her back was to him, though she wore men's clothing, and though her hair was trimmed short - barely long enough to touch her shoulders - even from afar Elder Brother recognized that the person was a woman. He assumed that the sound of the wind would hide his approach, but no - when he was still several hundred yards away she turned to face him, her hand on the hilt of a tiny sword. She did not call out to him, though, nor warn him - not until he was close enough for her to see his septon's robes, at which point she seemed to relax a bit - _but just a bit_, Elder Brother noted. _This one is on her guard._

"Good day to you, m'lady," he called out, raising his hand in a friendly greeting.

The girl bit her lip, but just as quickly released it. "You're a septon," she announced.

"I am. Does m'lady have confessions to make? I am not a wandering sort of septon, but I am always willing to help when needed." Elder Brother smiled at the young woman, but she took a step back and still did not remove her hand from the hilt of her funny little sword.

"Why do you call me 'm'lady'?" she asked warily. "I'm sure I don't look like one."

"But of course you do," Elder Brother corrected her, his brow furrowed. Could he have been mistaken? He didn't think so...yes, peasant girls could be as pretty as this one was, but peasant girls did not often stand so straight and proud, nor speak so well. Before he could explain as much, though, the young lady unsheathed her sword and dropped into some sort of fighting stance.

"Septon or no, I think it's best you leave," she warned him.

"I assure you, I do not mean you any harm. And I regret to say that you are standing in the exact place that I came to visit." The girl looked fierce enough, but there was something in her eyes...he somehow knew that she wouldn't hurt him, not when he hadn't done anything to provoke her.

The young woman's gray eyes narrowed. "What business do you have here?"

Elder Brother sighed. "I could ask the same of you. I tire of this game, child. I mean you no harm, surely you can see that. I may not look like a mere septon, but I assure you that's who I am. Now, I am going to dismount from this mule...I have been riding since very early this morning, and I need to stretch my legs."

"Fine. Come any closer, though, and - "

"And I am sure that you will run me through with that little sword of yours." Elder Brother interrupted, sliding down from his saddle. Once his feet were on the ground he faced the young woman again. She was not tall, but nor was she short. Slim, and without the long locks of Westerosi women, yet she spoke as if she was from..._the North, perhaps?_ Her gray eyes seemed calm, mostly, but he had seen them flash in anger when he'd called her a child...and she was, if not beautiful, certainly attractive in her own strong, fierce way. _For a very, very young woman. Hardly more than a girl, really._ "If I ask what business _you_ have here, do you think that you will be inclined to answer?"

The young woman shook her head. _No_. "Well, I will tell you why _I_ am here then, and perhaps you will change your mind.

"You see, I am the Elder Brother at the Quiet Isle. Do you know of it?"

Another shake of the head, _no_.

"Well, it is the island that sits at the mouth of the Trident, where that river meets the Bay of Crabs. Near Saltpans." He waited, looking for - perhaps _hoping_ for - a sign of recognition...but none came, and so he continued. "Some years ago now - " _How long has it been, then? Two years, two and a half? More?_ Elder Brother smiled sadly. "Some years ago now, I left the Quiet Isle on routine business, and I chanced to pass by this very spot.

"Where a man lay dying."

_Ah!_ That time the girl's reaction was unmistakeable. _Could it truly be...?_ he wondered, but he dared not ask - not just yet. Instead he admitted, "In fact, I thought him already dead at first...but when I approached, he opened his eyes and croaked a single word. _Mercy_, he asked for, and yet...I could not find it in myself to give it to him. Instead I gathered him up, had one of my men catch his beast of a horse, and brought them both to my sept.

"I have been called a sort of healer," Elder Brother said humbly, "and heal this man I did. When he finally came to - and was coherent - oh, the stories he had to tell! But then, I suppose you of all people know at least _some_ of those stories.

"Don't you, Lady Arya of House Stark?"


	4. The Penitent Ghost

His days came one after the other, and yet they ran into one another as well. Always the same - wake with the dawn, pull more clothing on over what he'd worn to bed to keep out the winter cold. Eat what was a meager yet hearty breakfast with men who had never been - and would never be - his fellows, baking in the heat of layers of wool and a fire in every hearth and far too many septons packed into one room. The work sometimes changed - the ground had been frozen so long that he could not remember how long it had been since he'd had to dig a grave. Mostly it was that the septons were fairly well-fed and generally kept warm- and therefore alive - but there had also come a day when even he with all of his strength could not break through the rock-hard dirt of the Quiet Isle.

This most recent change had been, in its own way, welcome and yet...unwelcome, somehow. When Elder Brother had announced that he was leaving the Isle for near a fortnight, most of the silent brothers merely nodded sagely. They had no need to know where Elder Brother was going; more than that, they simply didn't care.

Sandor Clegane assumed that he was supposed to feel the same. He knew that Elder Brother hadn't told the entire truth of why he was leaving - that much had been far too obvious, whether the silent brothers wanted to believe it or not. But another part of him...

_He wants too much_. Sandor knew that Elder Brother wanted him to join the order - almost _expected_ it, even. The man's reasons as to why were good ones, Sandor knew...but he was not Elder Brother. He knew where they kept that piece of shit sword that had been taken from him when he'd been transported to the Quiet Isle. He visited Stranger in the stables, and refused to call the stallion _Driftwood_ even now. He'd even laughed when he heard the story of how they'd attempted to geld his bad-tempered horse, and that reaction hadn't exactly endeared him to the brothers who'd been involved in that fiasco.

And most every night, he dreamed of Sansa Stark.

She'd found him in her bed as the sky glowed green and orange outside the windows of Maegor's Tower. He'd offered to take her away...but then he'd threatened her, and stolen a song. He hated himself for that, hated himself even more than he hated Gregor. The Elder Brother saw that as a sign that Sandor was willing to repent for his actions...and yet...he still wanted the Stark girl. He'd never raped a woman. He'd killed plenty of people, men and women and even children - even people who didn't _need_ to die - but that had always been by order, by decree. He wouldn't have raped the little bird any more than he would have killed her. He _could_ have...but he didn't. _Wouldn't_, he repeated to himself, over and over and over again. There was no sense in lying to himself, though - had she seemed willing...

_And why in seven hells would she have been _willing_? She could never even look you in the eye..._

But she had sang for him nonetheless, and more oft than not it was the memory of her lullaby - for there was no other word to call it - that had helped him to sleep at night. Especially here, where wine existed but was denied him.

Elder Brother asked too many questions, and wanted more than Sandor's loyalty - which by itself, he was willing to give. If anyone deserved it, it was that man, and this place. But the vows...those were things he would never speak. He'd kept his mouth shut - not talked except when asked to do so - but he couldn't - _wouldn't_ - promise anything. Regardless of where Sansa Stark was now. Regardless of _who_ she was - and here Sandor thought of Tyrion _fucking_ Lannister - regardless of _what_ she was now.

Would he say vows for her? He wanted to tell himself no, but after all the penitence that Elder Brother had insisted upon, Sandor had realized that if the little bird ever came back to him - or if he left this place and ever _found_ her - she was the one, the _only_ one, who deserved promises from him.

For the entire fortnight that Elder Brother was absent from the Quiet Isle, Sandor did not speak. It was, after all, what was expected of him.

But he never could have been prepared for Elder Brother's return - or for who he brought with him. She was grown, yes, but when Elder Brother called Sandor to his quarters, it took naught but a few moments to realize who she was. The anger that flashed across her face was what sparked the memory, but then the little wolf-bitch hissed, "_You're supposed to be dead_"...and he _knew_.

"Takes more than a little slice in the thigh to kill a dog such as me," he growled in response. "Why do you think I asked you for mercy?"

"Begged, is more like," she retorted. Yet despite the sword still hanging at her hip - _why didn't they take that from her?_ he wondered - she made no move to attack him.

"Would you really have raped my sister?" she asked instead. Sandor wanted to tell her _yes_, wanted to remind her of the monster that he was - but no, that was the monster that he'd _been_, and even then...

"Lady Arya has a task to complete," Elder Brother interjected. "And I believe you'd want to help her."

The silence stretched for several long moments, during which Sandor studied the girl. _No, she is a woman now._ And a woman of note, at that. He looked at her and saw...if not the beauty of her sister, the beauty of her _fierceness_. Long nose, thin yet wide lips, angry gray eyes that bespoke the nature of what she had become.

_She is a killer, now._

Not unlike myself.

Still, he couldn't help but ask, "Why would I help _her_?"

Elder Brother closed his eyes for a moment, as if contemplating whether or not he should even tell Sandor anything more. But then, he spoke.

"Sansa Stark has been living in the Vale with Petyr Baelish. With the regression of winter and the fall of Cersei Lannister, that man decided to reveal the Lady Sansa for who she truly is. She has been examined and proved to be a maid, and anyway, there has been no word of Tyrion Lannister. No one even knows if he is still alive. So Lord Baelish has conspired to wed Sansa Stark to a man named Harrold Hardyng. Harry the Heir, they call him, and now that young Robert Arryn is dead, so Harrold Hardyng is. With this marriage, the Vale and the North will become one...but there are some who do not want it so, and for very good reason, if what Lady Arya has told me is true. Those people called upon the Faceless Men of Braavos...and the Faceless Men sent this young woman."

"You're an _assassin_?" Sandor couldn't help but laugh. "My, how things change." He knew little and less of the Faceless Men - but he _did_ know what everyone else knew: that being that when the Faceless Men were assigned a task, they carried it out without questioning the person - or people - it involved. He turned to Elder Brother. "And _you_ are conspiring with her?"

"Not conspiring, no. You of all people know that I am a man of no allegiance, Sandor Clegane. I simply do not choose, after all that she has told me, to stand in her way."

"Standing in her way and sending me along to help her are two _very_ different things," Sandor noted.

Elder Brother nodded. "This is true. But I long ago came to realize that you would never be satisfied with the life of penitence that we here on the Quiet Isle live. That we preach, in a way. That we _love_. You have...a different love. One that you can only fulfill by helping this young woman with her...assignment."

"The love to _kill_, you mean," Sandor pressed.

"No." Elder Brother was adamant. "The love for a woman whom you could never even _hope_ to deserve. Sansa Stark is your destiny, Sandor Clegane. If you have not yet come to understand that, then there is nothing else I can do for you. It is far too likely that others will search her out - Cersei Lannister's _champion_, for one. Tyrion Lannister, if he is still alive and somehow believes that he deserves her or that she owes him something.

"Possibly even this Daenerys Targaryen with her dragons. This exile Queen who means to reunite Westeros by what I can only imagine are any means possible. And Brienne of Tarth, if she still lives, who wears a sword called Oathkeeper.

"A sword that was given her by Jaime Lannister himself."

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**POSTSCRIPT: I just wanted to note that while I understand that the Faceless Men are said to not send their assassins to kill people who those assassins know, I think that in a case like Arya's - especially in relation to the story in this fic - they would make an exception.**


	5. The Maiden Revealed

She ran the silver comb through her hair slowly, almost lovingly. The brown dyes that had hidden its true color had begun to fade months ago, not long after Petyr had finally allowed that she no longer needed to use them at all. At first she had kept her head covered, using the cold as an excuse...but that had ceased to matter when the septons and septas and silent sisters had descended on the Gates of the Moon with the waning of winter. They had determined that she was a maid and had sent word to the High Septon, who gladly declared her marriage to Tyrion of House Lannister annulled.

The entire experience had left a bitter taste in Sansa's mouth. Of course she did not _want _to be wed to Tyrion - she had _never_ wanted that - but there were rumors flying that the Imp had allied with Daenerys Targaryen and that they were well on their way to Westeros...with _dragons_.

_He never _loved _me_, Sansa Stark knew, _but that does not mean that he won't _hate_ me for setting him aside._

And she understood better than most that Lannisters truly did always pay their debts.

_Don't think about all that just now._ Just now, she was wearing a fine gown, far nicer than any she'd been allowed to wear as Alayne Stone. Her hair was red again, that deep auburn highlighted with copper that her mother had loved so much. She could be happy again, if only she could put Tyrion and Sweetrobin out of her mind.

_And what of your lady mother? What of father and Robb, Bran and Rickon, Arya and Jon Snow?_ What of Jeyne Pool, who had once been her closest friend?

And the Hound, Sandor Clegane..._he_ was never far from her mind, either.

The Hound was certainly dead, as were Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn and Sansa's eldest brother...but the rest...Jeyne Pool had been taken prisoner, tortured, forced to impersonate Arya and wed Ramsay Snow. She was alive now, and safe, but that was all Sansa knew of her, and she could not imagine that Jeyne was _happy_. As for Arya herself...there had never been any word of her little sister, so how could she possibly be alive?

Bran and Rickon had been presumed dead, but recently word had reached the Vale that Rickon at least was said to be alive...and if he was, then why not Bran?

Jon Snow, however, was an entirely different story. They said his own men, the men of the Night's Watch, had turned on him...had nearly killed him, and _would_ have killed him, had it not been for Stannis Baratheon's red woman and her magic. He was changed now, they said...though when she'd asked Petyr what that meant, he'd waved her off and told her not to worry about things that were out of their control.

_Yet _he_ thinks about it,_ she could see. _He thinks about it...and maybe even _worries_ about it himself..._

But no, that was silly. Petyr Baelish never worried about anything. Rather, he just seemed to expect that things would work out in his favor - and so far, Sansa knew, they had. After all, how easy had it been for him to whisk her away, to keep her safe and hidden while she needed to be safe and hidden, and then to reveal her when the time was right? How quickly had he been able to have her marriage annulled - less time than she had actually spent living with Tyrion as his wife, she was certain - and then announce that she would wed Harry and be the Lady of the Vale?

"You do look even even more stunning with your true hair color." His voice was soft, but Sansa couldn't quite call it affectionate. She glanced over her shoulder to see him standing straight and - well, not tall, but as tall as _he_ could be, anyway - in her doorway.

"Thank you, father," she murmured. Even as she realized her mistake, he was correcting her.

"I do not have to be your father anymore, Sansa. You know that." He was smiling, but she knew that he was chiding her.

"Yes. Of course. I...I still slip sometimes. Petyr."

Petyr Baelish - also called Littlefinger, though she knew better than to ever name him such to his face- strode toward her and laid a hand on her shoulder, then gave it a soft squeeze. "That's better. Now, I have some very..._interesting_...news for you. News that I think deserves a little kiss."

Sansa forced a smile and took his hand in hers, brushing her lips over his knuckles and hoping that would be enough. "What news?" she asked, hoping that her voice did not betray her extreme curiosity.

"Well...that wasn't _quite_ the kiss I had in mind," Littlefinger insisted. He bent toward Sansa and took her chin between his fingers, pulling her head around and placing his mouth over hers. It took everything in her power to not go rigid when he did so; all this time, and his touches - his _kisses_ - still unnerved her. Soon, though...soon she would be Harrold Hardyng's wife, and surely once that came to pass Petyr Baelish would not insist upon such...relations. Harry was a gregarious young man, it was true, but Sansa had noticed that once something was his, he could be fiercely jealous. The mother of his first bastard had been betrothed not long after her child had been born, and though no one knew the truth of what had happened to that man, most of the stories involved Harry in ways that frightened Sansa...frightened her even more than Littlefinger did, at times.

_In marrying Harry, am I ridding myself of one monster only to give myself to another?_

Lost in thought as she'd been, Sansa was almost startled when she felt Littlefinger pull away. His mouth quirked up in a sad smile - sad, yet it didn't reach his eyes. _None of his smiles do._ "I seem to recall that I told you I had news for you," he reminded her. "But I suppose it is in fact more of a surprise than anything else. Will you walk with me, Sansa?"

"Of course." Another forced smile. She stood and tucked her hand into the crook of Petyr Baelish's elbow, wondering what his surprise could be. Something as simple as a wedding gown, perhaps, but somehow Sansa didn't think that was the case.

No, this was something bigger. Something _more_. Even Littlefinger could not hide how pleased he was at times, and this was clearly one of them. Was it further news of Cersei's downfall? Or could something have happened to Tyrion?

_If it was something that came to him in a message, he would have merely brought that message to my room._

For all her wondering, Sansa could not seem to draw any sort of conclusion about Littlefinger's so-called surprise. Nor did she have any idea where he was leading her - though bigger than the Eyrie, the Gates of the Moon was not a _large_ stronghold...yet Sansa quickly realized that Petyr Baelish was leading her to a part of it that she'd never seen before. _What is he about?_ Certainly he didn't suddenly think to find a more secluded part of the Gates and force more than kisses upon her...

_As if he hasn't already done so_, Sansa reminded herself, thinking of the times when he'd pulled her into his lap to fondle at her breasts. More often than not she tried to pretend that none of that had happened - which was_ almost _easy to do, as it occurred far less often than the kissing.

Finally they reached a door that had been barred from the outside. Lothor Brune was standing guard, and Sansa greeted him courteously. As usual his expression was unreadable; in fact, the only times it wasn't were when Mya Stone was around. Sansa smiled to think of that, to be reminded that even in times and places like this, affection could bloom. _Would that Harry had inspired some in me._ Oh, he had been gallant enough, and at first she had nearly been fooled by him. But then, unbidden, she had remembered Sandor Clegane and all of the things he had said to her..._I am no knight. I spit on them and their vows...Paint stripes on a toad, he does not become a tiger...I like dogs better than knights...They're all liars here, and every one better than you...There are no true knights, no more than there are gods. If you can't protect yourself, die and get out of the way of those of us who can...I could keep you safe. They're all afraid of me. No one would hurt you again, or I'd kill them..._

If Sandor Clegane had still been alive and had ever again chanced to cross her path, Sansa knew that she would not shy away from looking at his face. He'd been hateful more oft than not, it was true, and yet in many ways he'd helped her. _Saved_ her, even. Had it not been for that counsel from what seemed so long ago, who was to say that she ever would have seen through Harrold Hardyng's shiny veneer to the false knight that lay within?

"Sansa? _Sansa_." Littlefinger's voice was sharp, and she realized that she'd once again lost herself in her thoughts. _I'm doing that far too often lately_, she knew. She also knew that it angered Littlefinger when she withdrew into herself, knew this before he narrowed his eyes at her and stated, "If you do not care to see my surprise, I can keep it to myself and you can go about your business."

"I...I apologize. Of course I want to see what you've...brought me."

Littlefinger smiled at her, but it was a small, mean thing. "Yes, you do, though I do not think you know how much. Brune."

Lothor Brune nodded and moved to unbar the door. Sansa's heart fluttered in her chest as the large sellsword curled his hand around the hilt of his weapon and slowly entered the room beyond, then turned and nodded to Petyr Baelish.

"Come." Littlefinger beckoned. Sansa followed him into the room - it was large, but the furnishings were sparse. _Not a bridal suite, then_, she thought, the last of her hopes for a _nice_ surprise fleeing with that realization. There were windows near the ceiling, high and narrow ones, and the room was cold and dim despite the embers glowing in the small hearth. It took Sansa's eyes several moments to adjust - but she heard the familiar voice before she saw the face, and just before she lost consciousness she felt huge, strong arms catching hold of her to keep her from falling.


	6. The Meek Lioness

She hates this place.

Not so long ago, she strode its halls and ruled over it, yet now she is naught but a prisoner inside its walls.

The coming of winter had delayed her trial, but the snows were melting and tales of dragons - the human and the beast - meant that it would happen soon. It _must_ happen soon.

Not soon enough, though. _Never soon enough._

She has her champion, at least. That much is enough to keep her putting one foot in front of the other, to keep her raising spoons and forks full of food to her mouth, to remind her again and again of the revenge that will soon be hers.

At least her uncle Kevan's death had put to rest the plan to send her back to Casterly Rock. She hadn't been sure she could bear returning to her childhood home, especially as it meant leaving her son, her sweet and far too _simple_ son, behind. Here with the roses and their poisoned thorns...

_No_, Cersei Lannister told herself. _I will not think of that now, or tomorrow, or ever._ She would not think of that just as she would not think of Jaime, her twin, who had apparently abandoned her in her hour of need. She told herself he had never received her letter, and it was quite possible that this was the truth...yet after all this time, he must have heard about her plight.

Yet he'd never come to her, though he must know she wanted him to. _Needed_ him to. Cersei had oft entertained the thought that her brother might be dead, but deep down she simply _knew_ that this could not be true, could not be _fact_. How many times had they said that they had come into this world together, and that they would leave it together? _I would feel it, if he was dead. I would know. Perhaps I would have died in the same moment...not _with_ him, but...'with' him..._

But Cersei Lannister did not want to die - not while there was still a chance that Ser Robert Strong would prove her innocence. After which she could send him out in the world to find all those who had betrayed her. _But who first?_ Tyrion was always the one she thought of immediately, though Cersei knew that he'd be best saved for last. His death would be her finest hour.

So first...perhaps she would give Ser Robert Strong a present. It was possible that Sandor Clegane was dead, but if he wasn't...well, then Ser Robert Strong would surely love to take care of Joffrey's former Hound. _For me. For Joffrey._ The Hound had abandoned his post, after all, and had he still been in King's Landing perhaps he could have protected her son from death, as he had for so long before that. Regardless, he was a traitor, and his passing would be a good - and likely easy - start.

_And after him?_ Cersei's lips spread into a grim smile. _Sansa Stark. _That little bitch of a wolf had planned Joffrey's death with Tyrion - of that much Cersei was certain. And now Petyr Baelish, whom Cersei had always believed to be so very clever despite his lowborn status, had revealed that he'd had Sansa Stark all this time. _He thinks himself safe...thinks that with winter over and these tales of Targaryens and dragons, it was past time he let the world know that he has her...but he will never be safe, not now that _I_ know._ For Cersei could only assume that Littlefinger had had a hand in Joffrey's death as well. The fool had probably hoped that Tyrion would be the only one suspected, the only one caught, and that he could keep the Stark girl for himself. _Idiot._ Cersei couldn't help but chuckle. _Such fools, these men who love, love above their station or below their station or love someone who does not care for them as well._ It was different with she and Jaime, she told herself. They were different in many ways, yet somehow...somehow they were still one and the same. She shook her head as if to clear it. _I must not think of Jaime. Not just now._

Yes, she would send Ser Robert Strong for Sandor Clegane, and then for Littlefinger and Sansa as one. Perhaps the Tyrells, then, and finally, _finally_, Tyrion.

She made herself ready, made herself demure, and asked for Lord Qyburn. The former maester was soon by her side. "My Queen," he greeted her - properly, albeit quietly, clearly not wishing to be overheard.

"Lord Qyburn. I was hoping you could do me another favor."

He smiled. At times she did not like his smile, and this was one of them. _He knows too much_. But he was loyal; he had proven that time and again. _And he knows that we Lannisters always pay our debts._ "Anything for you, my Queen."

"Yes, of course." Cersei waved him off - she did not wish to hear his simpering just now. "I need you to gather as much information as you can about the whereabouts of Sandor Clegane, Petyr Baelish...and Sansa Stark."

"Why, by now everyone knows that Lord Baelish and the Lady Sansa are at the Gates of the Moon, awaiting that lady's marriage to young Harrold Hardyng," Qyburn felt the need to remind her.

"Yes, yes. But I want to know _more_. I want to know _everything_."

"As you wish." Qyburn paused, rubbing at his chin with one hand. "As for the Hound...he will be more difficult to find, I believe. _If _he is still alive, he has alluded all those who wish to find him...and there are many who have searched for him."

"I know this!" Cersei snapped. She held her composure so well these days, knowing that she didn't have any other choice _but_ to do so...but around Lord Qyburn, every once in a while, she broke. Never for very long, of course, and she knew that he would not speak of it...yet still, these outbursts were dangerous. Cersei took a deep breath. "Find what you can, I mean. As much as you can. Perhaps there is something that rogue outlaws and pathetic knights have not found. Wouldn't you agree that is quite possible?"

Qyburn nodded slowly. "Of course. Of course. I will do my very best to serve you, my Queen."

"And quickly," Cersei insisted. "My trial could happen any day now, and I want Ser Robert to be ready for his next task as soon as he proves my innocence."

"Our silent giant will be ready for any task you set him. That's what he was...made for." Qyburn's smile was enigmatic and frustrated Cersei.

"Hush," she hissed. "Be careful what you say. These walls - "

"Have ears. Yes, I know. But thankfully most of those ears belong to me."

Cersei narrowed his eyes at him. "To _you_?"

"Why, to _us_, of course." Lord Qyburn smiled again, and bowed his head in obeisance.

_That's better._ "Still. You can only claim to...own..._most_ of those ears. Not _all_ of them. We must still be careful." If anything, Cersei had learned from her mistakes. She had never been careful enough, and that is how she had ended up in her current position. _I will not make those mistakes again. I will not make _any_ mistakes, ever again._ This was why she needed Lord Qyburn. As much as she would love to send Ser Robert to kill her enemies as soon as he was done defending her, Cersei understood that she needed to know their weaknesses. _Even if my champion has none._

"Is there anything else you would have of me?" Qyburn suddenly asked, breaking her reverie. Cersei shook her head - more for herself than for him, but the former maester took it as a no and bowed deeply. "If not, then, I will be about my business. I assure you, I will find as much information as I can...with that, and Ser Robert Strong..."

_I will be avenged_.

Cersei couldn't help but smile.


	7. The Angry Wolf

**I just wanted to say thank you to everyone who is bearing with me during the slightly slow start to this fic. The scope of it is much larger than any other one I've previously written, but I promise there is a point to it and that we will get there eventually :)**

* * *

Though she hadn't entirely finished her training at the House of Black and White, she doubted that the kindly old man could have ever prepared her for _this_. No matter how much he knew, he couldn't have foreseen that she would want to visit the place where she'd left the Hound to die...that she would in turn come across the Elder Brother, who would somehow convince her to visit the Quiet Isle...where she would then learn that the Hound was alive and well, and be asked to let him tag along with her.

No, not even the kindly old man could have foreseen all of _that_.

_Right?_

The truth of the matter was that she didn't know, and probably never would. Arya found herself biting her lip as she mused angrily over how the Faceless Men could send her away like this, knowing that she likely would not return to them - and not caring about that one bit. _And why should they care? You are no one!_

And yet every day that she spent back in Westeros - her return to Saltpans, visiting what she'd thought was the Hound's final resting place, seeing him again and learning more of her sister's plight - reminded her over and over again who she truly was. Perhaps it would have helped if she'd refused Elder Brother's suggestion of letting the Hound tag along on her assignment, and she cursed herself for stupid for having let him convince her otherwise.

_Though he's certainly a hell of a lot quieter than he was...before._ Arya glanced back at the Hound's hulking form, sitting tall astride his courser Stranger. Sandor Clegane had put aside the brown robes of the brothers of the Quiet Isle and was once again clothed in boiled leather and steel plate, a large greatsword hanging at his side. Though he walked with a slight limp when his feet were on the ground, he still struck a formidable figure. _Not that _I_ need him for his sword or shield,_ Arya thought smugly.

Suddenly the Hound looked up and caught her watching him. He narrowed those gray eyes of his - gray eyes that had once held so much anger, but were now so very different. "You always did enjoy looking at my ugly face," he called out, his voice even more hoarse and gravelly than she remembered it being - _likely from disuse_, Arya reminded herself, thinking back on the eery quiet of the sept where he'd apparently resided for some time.

"I've never _enjoyed_ it," she spat back, her lip automatically curling in distaste.

Sandor Clegane shrugged nonchalantly, which angered her even more. "So you say, yet you keep looking," he noted.

Arya _huffed_ and turned her back on him, wondering what he would do if she simply left him behind in the middle of the night. She kept telling herself that she should do just that - and yet she never even _attempted_ it. Arya wanted to believe that this was because Elder Brother had made the Hound's affection for - and willingness to help - Sansa Stark very, very clear. He'd even made Clegane explain why he'd said what he said to Arya, that day she'd left him to die...though even after hearing all of that, she had railed against the idea of taking Sandor Clegane with her.

Finally the Hound had chuckled and said, "If you don't take me willingly, I'll just follow you at a safe distance."

"You never would," Arya had snapped. "You don't know what I can _do_. You'd not be able to follow my tracks, because _I won't leave any_."

"Please," the Hound had snorted. "You aren't as smart as you think, you little wolf-bitch."

Her anger had flared again, but the Elder Brother had said softly, "That is enough. Lady Arya, I cannot force you to take Sandor Clegane on this journey of yours, but I implore you to think about what your sister would want you to do."

Arya had grimaced. "My sister loved songs and stories and _handsome_ _knights_. I'm sure she wouldn't care a lick about the Hound."

"Not the Hound," the Elder Brother had reminded her. "Sandor Clegane. I ask you to rethink that claim, though." Here he had glanced at the Hound. "What was your sister's favorite song?"

Of course Arya knew that it was _Florian and Jonquil_...and that Florian was neither handsome, nor a knight. _Damn him._

(She hadn't known whether she was damning Florian, Elder Brother, or the Hound himself, just then.)

She'd stood and paced back and forth in front of the two men. "I'll let him come with me - " she'd begun, only to be interrupted by a snort from Sandor Clegane.

"_Let_ me," he'd mumbled. Arya had glared at him.

"Yes. I'll _let_ you come. But no drinking - you're useless when you drink. And I don't care what _either_ of you say about the things you told me about Sansa - I don't want you speaking of her to me. At all. Ever. Understood?"

At that point the Hound had grinned almost maniacally and turned to Elder Brother, saying, "Such an angry little wolf-bitch. You should keep her here for a while and teach her some manners...I can sort this out on my own."

"That's enough, Sandor," the Elder Brother had warned. "You do not need to worry about the drinking, Lady Arya. He hasn't touched a drop the entire time he's been here, at my behest, and I trust that he'll continue to abstain if it means the chance to right the wrongs he did to your sister." The Hound had grumbled at this, but hadn't disagreed.

The rest of the terms and information about their journey and their task had been settled over a simple but hot supper, and the very next morning Arya and the Hound had departed the Quiet Isle. Elder Brother watched them go, his brow furrowed in concern as if he wasn't sure he'd made the right decision. And even now, days later, Arya wasn't certain that _she'd_ made the right decision. In general the Hound hadn't yet caused any trouble, but still she couldn't understand why he wanted to do this - especially considering that he had to do it with her, and he didn't seem to like her any more than she liked him.

Finally, after nearly a week of silent nights, one evening as Arya was stoking their camp fire she stated - quite matter-of-factly - "Just because you spent your time at the Quiet Isle _atoning _for your sins, it doesn't mean they're all forgiven. The Seven are next to nothing in terms of gods."

"Is that what they taught you in Braavos, girl?" The Hound wasn't looking at her, nor did he sound angry. In fact it was almost as if he didn't care at all that she'd just insulted the gods he'd spent all that time serving.

"It's what I _learned_ in Braavos," she corrected him.

"If you say so." Sandor Clegane leaned back against a tree, stretched out his legs and closed his eyes. Seeing him like that reminded Arya of how she'd left him to die. _I should have killed him then. Should have given him the mercy he asked for._ Suddenly she found herself on her feet, her hand clutching Needle's hilt. _Swift as a deer. Quiet as a shadow...Quick as a snake. Calm as still water. _In the work of a moment she was standing over the Hound and had drawn Needle from its sheath, but before she could raise her hand to strike any sort of blow, his eyes opened. "You gonna kill me for real this time?" he asked. "Go ahead and do it, if it will make you feel better. Just make sure you tell your sister that I was going to come for her. That I wanted to help her, because I never helped her enough...before." There was no sadness, no anger or hatred or - well, _anything_ - in his voice, and Arya found herself lowering her little sword.

"I should kill you, but I won't," she forced herself to say, though even as she spoke the words she realized that she didn't _quite_ mean them.

"You keep telling yourself that, girl," Sandor Clegane replied cryptically. He closed his eyes again, and for a moment Arya's hand hovered over Needle's hilt...but finally she backed away and settled herself across the fire from the Hound. She didn't sleep at all that night, and though she told herself it was because someone needed to keep watch, deep down Arya knew that wasn't the only reason that her eyes refused to close.


	8. The Broken Knight

**Sorry it's been so long since I was able to post a new chapter of this one! I really had to buckle down and finish Lack of Color before focusing on this, which I would like to be *my* magnum opus in terms of SanSan endgame stories. I'll be writing this one for some time to come, but I hope to update it on at least a fairly regular basis from now on :)**

* * *

While they'd been lucky enough to make it past the mountain tribes - most of their numbers had been decimated by the short yet hard winter - they hadn't been able to get quite as far as he would have liked before being ambushed by a large group of the Lord Protector's sellswords. Brienne had held her own against them for a time, and of course he had attempted to fight as well...but they'd been outnumbered by better-fed and better-rested men, and that was that.

Thankfully, other than a few blows sustained before they'd reached the Gates of the Moon and been brought before Petyr Baelish, Jaime was no worse for the wear. Brienne, who had always been better at keeping her mouth shut, had a few nicks from their fight and nothing more.

"You gave up quite easily," Littlefinger admonished them, a slow smile spreading across his lips. "To me, that screams of you wanting something."

Brienne opened her mouth to speak, but before she could do so Jaime silenced her with a look. Littlefinger saw the exchange, but thankfully only shrugged it off. "No matter," he assured them. "I am an intelligent man, and I have already made an educated guess as to what - or should I say _who_ - you are looking for. If you thought to wrest her from my grasp, well, that clearly won't happen. But...I think that I _will_ let you see her...and I believe that she should be the one who decides your fate. Of course, if you think to be spared by sweet Sansa Stark...well...I should warn you that she has been under my tutelage.

"And she has learned quite a bit."

They'd been brought deep into the Gates of the Moon; clearly Littlefinger wanted them hidden away, but despite being locked in a guarded room Jaime and Brienne were given every comfort. Baths - taken separately, with the large tub curtained and more guards to keep them apart, Jaime noted - food, drink...Littlefinger spared nothing. But eventually they were left alone, and as soon as they were, Brienne drew him as far away from the door as possible and whispered hoarsely, "What do you think he meant, about her 'learning quite a bit'?"

"I wouldn't be too concerned about that," Jaime reassured her.

"But what if - "

"We can't play that game, Brienne," he said. "I know little and less of Sansa Stark, but if she truly is the girl that was described to me - by my brother, _her husband_, and by her mother...I would think that she's not apt to become some pawn of Littlefinger's."

Unfortunately, he didn't sound very sure of himself - and he could see his own concern reflected on Brienne's stalwart, ugly face. "Everything will be alright," he assured her, and though he didn't quite believe his own words he saw relief pass over Brienne's face._ I can't divest her of that. Not just now._

Still, it was several days before anything changed. More food and drink were provided, and even another bath, yet neither Littlefinger nor Sansa Stark came to visit them. "Has Lord Baelish forgotten us?" Brienne lamented late one morning, as the sunlight that shone through the small high windows grew ever brighter, which to them merely noted the swift passing of another day.

"Littlefinger never forgets anything," Jaime smirked. "He is merely doing his best to make us uncomfortable."

Brienne grimaced. "That is unworthy."

Jaime rolled his eyes. "Almost everything that anyone does is unworthy, Brienne. It's past time you remembered that. And anyway, who are we to him that he should do anything for us? He has given us shelter, food, and drink, and to be honest that is likely more than he feels we deserve. He knows nothing of you, and he must assume that I am here to abscond with his prize."

"His...prize?"

"Sansa Stark," Jaime reminded her, barely able to keep himself from rolling his eyes yet again. "Come now, most everyone at court knew that Petyr Baelish was in love with Catelyn Stark even before he conspired against her husband with my sister, and I cannot pretend that those feelings of Littlefinger's didn't matter when he decided to whisk Catelyn's beautiful young daughter away from King's Landing."

Brienne's eyes widened. "Do you think she has been forced to do anything...against her will?"

"And why would you draw that conclusion?" Jaime replied sarcastically. Brienne opened her mouth to speak, but he raised his hand to keep her from doing so. "Stop. Do I think that Lady Sansa ended up in this place of her own accord? Not...exactly. But do I think she's been _forced_ to stay here? Absolutely not. However...from what I have seen, even so long ago, and from what I have been told...I would bet my hand - the only one I have left - that Littlefinger does not know her as he _thinks_ he knows her."

"I hope you are right..."

_You and me both._ Jaime didn't even want to think about how things would go for them if he was wrong.

It was in the midst of these musings that they heard voices outside of the room. The door was thick and muffled any noise from outside, but Jaime immediately knew that something was different this time - there were too many people talking, and they'd had their morning meal not two hours before. He could feel Brienne watching him, but he could not bring himself to look at her just now. He simply didn't want to face her questioning eyes, didn't want to attempt to give her answers that he didn't truly have.

The door swung open and Littlefinger's large sellsword entered first, his hand curled over the hilt of his weapon as if in warning. Jaime automatically stepped in front of Brienne, ignoring the fact that she scoffed at him, but then the sellsword moved aside and Littlefinger himself entered - with Sansa Stark close on his heels.

She was of course much older than she'd been the last time Jaime had set eyes on her, years ago in King's Landing, and her hair wasn't quite the same bright coppery red that he remembered - but it was unmistakably, undeniably her. Almost without thinking he stepped forward, bowing his head as he said "Lady Sansa, you've no idea how relieved I am to see that you are as alive and well as the rumors - "

But before he could finish he heard a gasp, followed by a shuffling noise and a grunt, all of which happened before he could even lift his head to see that Sansa Stark had fainted. "My lady!" Brienne cried, but when she rushed forward Jaime saw a cloud pass over the sellsword's face and knew to stop Brienne from getting too close. He grabbed hold of her.

"She'll be fine, Brienne. Apparently I startled her...or at least that's what I assume, as it's been quite some time since I've had such an affect on a beautiful young woman." He hadn't meant this as a slight to Brienne, but he saw the hurt in her eyes before she averted them and began trying to disentangle herself from his grasp.

Littlefinger had barely glanced their way; it appeared that he had eyes only for the Stark girl. "An unfortunate reaction, but I suppose I should have given her more warning. Brune, carry her back to her chambers and call a maidservant to rouse her. Send for Myranda Royce as well, in fact...Sansa will need a bit of comfort, I think. Ah, and Mya Stone, to add a bit of sense. Tell them to let Sansa know that I will come to her later, so that we can discuss what to do with our prisoners."

The sellsword - _Brune_, Jaime noted, wanting to remember that name,_ just in case_ - nodded, gathered Sansa Stark's limp form into his arms, and departed. Littlefinger watched him go, and when sound of Brune's heavy footfalls had receded the Lord Protector sighed and turned back to Jaime and Brienne. "It appears that you will have to wait a bit longer for your sentence."

_"Sentence_?" Brienne cried. "What have we done that we deserve to be _sentenced_? You never even asked us why we were here!" Jaime tried to stop her from saying anything else, but she glared at him and continued, "I was given the task of returning Sansa Stark to her mother, and - "

"Her mother? You mean our dearly departed Lady Catelyn?" Lord Petyr Baelish cocked his head and smiled slyly at Brienne. "How will you return Lady Sansa to someone who is dead? And why in the world would you have dragged Ser Jaime Lannister here along with you to do such a thing? I'm afraid that there are more holes in your story than there are in a shirt of mail, and I'm not at all certain how you could expect me to believe you."

Jaime cleared his throat. "What Brienne here meant to say is that_ we_ were charged with returning Lady Sansa to her mother, and though Lady Catelyn is no longer...alive...we have taken it upon ourselves to make certain that Sansa is safe." There was more that he wanted to say, and he knew that Littlefinger could likely tell as much, but Jaime shut his mouth and tried to keep his face expressionless as he waited for Sansa's protector - _or is he her captor?_ - to reply.

"Very well. As you can see she is quite safe, and quite healthy as well. Thriving, in fact. Still, I do not believe your stories, and I doubt she will either. Once she is roused and calmed, perhaps she will deign to visit you again. Or...perhaps not. I shall let her make that decision, as well as letting her choose what we will do with you. Though of course, I will give her certain...guidance...of my own."

With that Littlefinger spun on his heel and strode from the room, shutting and locking the door behind him. After several tense moments of silence, Jaime couldn't help but turn to Brienne and quip, "That went well, don't you think?"


End file.
